


Tired of Feeling

by xianvar



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: F/F, F/M, FFFc May Special, LiveJournal Prompt, M/M, One sentence fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 12:53:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11013831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xianvar/pseuds/xianvar
Summary: 30 prompts turn into 30 (run-on, comma and semicolon-abusing) one-sentence fics! Featuring a variety of characters on emotional prompts!





	1. Prompt Table

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [FFFc May Special](https://fffc.dreamwidth.org/4103.html), Prompt Table A: Emotional Prompts. Not beta-read, so I hope you can excuse any mistakes ^^  
> This is cross-posted to [DW](https://kephiso.dreamwidth.org/3707.html).

overwhelmed | anticipation | exhaustion | humilitation | optimistic | surprised  
---|---|---|---|---|---  
confused | sympathy | anger | sad | energetic | hyper  
pleased | thankful | mischievous | bliss | tired | broken  
calm | lonely | defeated | cold | love | hope  
shock | relief | tears | laughter | thrilled | remorse


	2. Prompt Fills

## overwhelmed

It's too much--lights and people and sounds and so much demand for his attention, and it's making his head swim, thoughts stuck on a merry-go-round threatening to spin off its axis; he tries to hold on to any single impression in his mind, but it runs through his grasp like fine sand, intangible and dizzying in its fleetingness, and he is spinning (or maybe the world is spinning, he isn't entirely sure) out of control, further and further away until the sensations are muted, and he can't feel his toes, his fingers, his lips, but it doesn't matter because his thoughts are ebbing away, and he wants to curl up--until it does matter; warmth on his shoulder and a voice somewhere far away, pulling him back and back and murmuring into his ears, and it's Victor (it's _Victor_ , it's _safe_ ), strong and steady arms around him, grounding him and making the thoughts receive far enough to breathe again, and breathe he does, finally, air making his limbs tingle--he is safe.  


* * *

## anticipation

There are too many people in the room--and they can't get away right now, but the way Sara is looking at her, sneaking tiny little glances her way when Michele isn't looking, hands brushing when Sara passes by her on the way to drinks, her leg pressed against Mila's for most of dinner--to say Mila is looking forward to finally being done here is an understatement, anticipation of what's to come thrumming under her skin and making her feel alive, more alive and free than just alcohol could justify.  


* * *

## exhaustion

Legs trembling, chest heaving, ears roaring with blood so loud it drowned out the noise from the stands Yūri stood there for a moment, trying to catch his breath, eyes closed against the whole world; the adrenaline was still running high, but there was no denying the tendrils of tiredness grabbing at the edges of his consciousness as the cheering from the stands finally filtered into his awareness, and he pasted a smile onto his face, ignoring the sweat running down his forehead, his neck as he made his way off the ice, trying to keep the exhilaration going so as to not collapse from exhaustion (maybe he shouldn't have pushed those jumps so far back, but what is a little exhaustion in the face of _proving_ that he's still on top of things?).  


* * *

## hyper

The urge to rub his eyes and hide his face in his hands grows stronger with every second; Yūri has never felt this much like a parent (he's not even halfway through his twenties, for god's sake!), and Yurio isn't even his child, but there is no helping it--Yurio seems more like a kid and less than a sullen teenager than ever before, and _who thought it was a good idea to give him sugar?_ Yūri wonders, though he does not dare speak out loud for fear of drawing the attention of the bundle of wasps currently buzzing around the Onsen onto him, chattering a mile a minute in Russian at Victor, too fast for Yūri to understand even a single word (it all sounds like continuous... brabble), and seemingly unable to keep still--all Yūri wants to do by now is pull out his phone and call Altin, to come and take care of that hyper kid (it takes exactly five more minutes of chattering, one shattered decorative vase and a bowl of katsudon that only hald lands in Yurio's mouth before Yūri has enough and does just that, and Altin comes just in time to take the brunt of the post-hyper crash Yurio unleashes on everyone else (Yūri very decidedly does not think about how Altin got there so fast, because--no, he does not want to think about that).

* * *

## confused

After most of his embarrassment had died down, all that remained was that almost tangible itch at the back of Yūri's mind, a constant _what the fuck_ that was hard to push away, a wake of vultures looking for prey, and in all honesty--Yūri would rather be glad should they find it, because maybe that would alleviate the confusion as to _what the fucking hell Victor Nikiforov was doing in **their onsen**_.

* * *

## humiliation

His face burns, and not only from exertion, standing there in the middle of the ice, its surface sliced open by so many blades (and yet not as painful as his showing here, at the biggest stage); he thinks of his promise, of _Isabella_ , and he doesn't even need to see his score to know that that is but a pipedream; he squandered his chance in front of millions of viewers, and he isn't embarrassed--embarrassed is much to soft a word, because what he did here was humiliate himself, and nothing less.  


* * *

## relief

She meets his eyes steady, tries to embrace his hurt, his confusion but not let them excite her, too, as she pulls the words from her brain one by one, painful but necessary, because: "I have met someone," she tells him, and the urge to look away is strong; she doesn't, because she owes him this, "You don't have to worry for my virtue anymore. You don't need to chase away the _terrible men_ ," she tries to keep the bitterness out of her voice, tries not to let her heart break at the expression on his face, but, "it is time for to move on, I am sorry, Michele" and he doesn't say anything but nods, eyes full of silent anguish; and yet not even that can dampen the sheer _relief_ that floods her after she has gotten the words out, and maybe, one day, even the two of them will be all right again.  


* * *

## optimistic

She waits for him just shy of the camera angles, smile on her face and eyes glistening with tears (and he tears up right along, but this has always been the case and is not the point here), and her arms around him when he is finally done are as strong as though he just won (or maybe stronger, and for a tiny moment, he allows himself to relax into her embrace, kisses her neck in a silent gesture of gratitude); she looks so certain that something _blooms_ in his chest (as stupid as that sounds), filling his ribcage and making every breath feel like the first burst of newly discovered wings, and when she says, "You'll show them tomorrow," even he smiles, and caresses that fledgling of optimism that has taken root within him, because he is _JJ_ , and it wouldn't be JJ Style to just turn over and give up; tomorrow is another day, and he intends to use it (and skate for Isabella and not as a condition for their marriage, because as long as he has her, the latter is inconsequential).  


* * *

## anger

It is broiling and ugly and painful, that mess inside his chest when Yuri makes the mistake of poking it; so he doesn't, for the most part, tries to ignore it, though he cannot _flee_ , he can't get away, and it _hurts_ , the constant white-hot streaking his vision, the buzz just underneath his skin, and the smallest thing is able to spark the flame for real until it consumes him, colouring his cheeks in kind and telling him to _lash out_ , to _hurt_ in a desperate attempt to alleviate the pressure within his chest; if he is angry, he at least is neither empty nor confused, and when he is honest with himself (not that he is that very often), anger is preferable over the other two.  


* * *

## tears

_At least the pain is real_ , Michele thought not without a trace of bitterness as his teeth cut into his lower lip, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to be felt; he was rooting around his drawer for one of the velcro wristcuffs he had discarded so thoughtlessly when he had gotten them, so sure that he would never need them; and the bitter truth was that what had been supposed to be one of the most exciting days in his life--his name fading in--was in fact one of the worst, because his wrist spelled _Ramir_ , and that was not even close to what he had hoped would appear there; and he could feel his heart break anew later, as he passed Sara on the stairs and she wouldn't quite meet his gaze; it _hurt_ , because they'd always been in this together, and now he barely made it to his room (his single room, too large despite the clutter, a gaping hole where his sister, his _everything_ was supposed to be) at least before the first tears came, a hot prickling in the corner of his eyes before they got too big to cling on and made their way down his cheek, dripping into his mouth as he tried to _breathe_ through the pain, salty and desperate, and there was no way he could kid himself into believing things would be all right--they weren't, and never would be again.  


* * *

## remorse

Michele can pinpoint the exact moment his sister spies Mila, because her whole face lights up, phone switched off and stuffed in her pocket mid-sentence, and he makes himself _look_ at them; because yes, it hurts (it hurts worse than Michele ever imagined), but _this_ is what makes her happy, this is where she looks thirteen again and they have skated a beautiful choreo, ten when he got her that necklace she hasn't worn in years, five as he allowed her to take the top bunk in their room, and the pain is new and bittersweet (she doesn't look at him this way anymore, doesn't see her world in him), less lancing through his heart and more nostalgic, and if he could--oh if he only could!--he would undo all his words, reverse his clinginess, take back making her choose between him and living her life without realizing it; if he could, he would go without ever knowing _this_ pain, this sorrow at the thought that instead of cherishing her, he has pushed her away (he doesn't tell her; he has hurt her enough, and this is his burden now--his just punishment, he thinks, and can't deny it is fitting.)  


* * *

## calm

There is something--a lot of things, really--to be said about the Hasetsu beach with the waves lapping against the shore, loud enough to drown out the cars in the distance, the vast expanse of lonely sand and Makkachin at his feet; though it probably is all amplified by the promise of _Yūri_ waiting for him back at the onsen, or the rink, or the castle, or wherever they've agreed to meet that day, and that is something that Victor can appreciate even more, that Yūri doesn't mind him walking Makkachin alone in the morning, using that time to fill up his reserves for the day, to just--just let the calm will his body, seep into his bones, and yes, he cannot deny it: he is at home here. 

* * *

## sad

She is strong, he knows this; he fell in love with her beauty and resoluteness and sense of direction back when he was on the peak of his ability and she was the greatest woman he knew; sometimes, he thinks, he can still see that in her, can see the merciless, disciplined dancer (she will probably always be, but some days, it is a little more pronounced, a reminder of a past that should have become a present but didn't, somehow); and he is maudlin, he _knows_ this, but knowing doesn't help when he still looks at her and _longs_ , eyes burning and heart clenching, and for a moment--just a moment though--he lets himself wallow in it, allows the sadness to be there and kiss his thoughts, and then Yuri crashes into his moment of silence, yelling about who knows what, and Yakov sighs and pushes all thoughts of Lilia out of his head--he doesn't have time to be sad with a high-maintenance child such as Yuri, and maybe he is actually glad for that. 

* * *

## cold

Mila pulls the ice around her heart just a little tighter, an impenetrable wall of disgust and hate and a sprinkle of humiliation like broken pieces of glass, painful enough to keep her mask in place, to remind her what has happened, and she doesn't need to look into a mirror to know that her expression reflects that; but if she has to look him in the eye--and she will not get around it at the rink--she will do so at her own terms, and she will show him that she does not _miss_ him. 

* * *

## lonely

It's nights like these that Sara hates, when her apartment gets too stifling, boxing her in with its vastness, and she doesn't hesitate long but packs her study things and her current book and makes the short walk to the coffee shop down the road (she is not the only one; it is sort of a niche tip that has grown big enough that it's bordering on mainstream, and a tiny, tiny part of her despises it, but most of her if proud of that little cozy place that has made a name for itself), because there at least she has the illusion of company, distraction from the thoughts that inevitably seem to return to her brother no matter what she does, and while insisting on her own thing was definitely the right choice, she _misses_ him, misses being half of a whole, misses not feeling like she is the only person on this planet--she pushes these thoughts out of her mind resolutely as she pushes the door open, inhaling the scent of freshly-baked goods even at nine pm on a Friday, and she can't even suppress a smile when the pretty red-head behind the counter grins at her sight, and Sara resolves to finally find out what her name is (seeing how she's never wearing her name-tag), because what is better to combat loneliness than new acquaintances? 

* * *

## tired

He notices it as a tightness across his shoulders, a pressure behind is forehead, a burning in his eyes, eyes slipping shut further when he loosens his eyebrows by raising them briefly and letting them sink on their own again; he wants nothing more than to lay down and curl around Victor, but he is though out of luck: from the looks of it, he is the only one who is tired all ready, and if he can read his fiancé right (and not even that though jolts him as much as it usually does) he is nowhere near powered out to lie down now, much less go to bed; and maybe, this is just another evening spent cuddling with Makkachin--not that that is such a hardship, really, but the poodle is still not his first choice. 

* * *

## mischievous

Yuri wakes up to Mila grinning--no, smirking really, and a sinking feeling spreads in his gut; he closes his eyes again for just a moment, and when he opens them again, she is looking innocent--too innocent, and a look around him reaveals why: there are plushies (at least they are cats!) strewn around him, one even in his lap, and he shrieks at the indignity of it all, causing Mila to smirk at him again and saunter away, throwing a smirk over her shoulder, just in time with his phone buzzing: _How cute_ , Otabek tells him, and it makes his face heat up even before he sees the attached screenshot of--he will _kill_ her, because apparently Mila has uploaded some of the pictures to her instagram, and _gods_ , he will get her for that. 

* * *

## bliss

Victor's hands are strong on his back, fingers digging deeply into the offending muscle groups, and Yūri moans at the pleasure-pain that seems to reach his core; not in a sexual way, but in one that promises less pain, less muscle aches the next morning; Victor kisses a smile into his shoulder blade as his hands wander lower, drawing over the small of Yūri's back that always seems to hurt after a long day skating, and Yūri can feel himself melt into the mattress, his whole body a puddle of goo, no bone left and even less of a tender muscle with Victor's sure-handed treatment--and yes, this might just be paradise, he thinks, content to drift in this wave of absolute contentment and something he would carefully describe as happiness. 

* * *

## shock

The longer he looks, the more differences to his Vicchan become obvious: this dog is bigger, the fur not as dark, seemingly familiar; a long forgotten memory stirring at the back of Yuuri’s mind, unfolding ever so slowly with a persistent feeling of recognition; but it cannot be, it--for a moment he refuses to believe it, but the knowledge settles in slowly, gradually, before the reality of it slams into his mind all at once, and he almost swallows his own spittle, because--he can hardly even think it, mind racing for a different explanation, but there is none, and he scrambles backwards, trying to swallow against the metallic taste in his mouth, because this--he knows this dog, he has seen her in more magazines than he can remember, he has a _poster_ of her on his wall, and once he accepts that this is actually _Makkachin_ standing in front of him, he cannot deny that she is unlikely to be here alone any longer, and he can actually feel the blood drain out of his face. 

* * *

## laughter

She cannot recall what was being said that moment later, but that doesn't matter in the now, or even the long run, because the feeling of it will stay with her for longer than it should--the warmth bubbling in her chest, tickling at the insides of her ribcage, trying to contain it at first and just huffing twice before the look on Sara's face actually sets her off, chest expanding and then contracting sharply, sending out a burst of laughter surprisingly loud, almost startling, which in turn sets off Sara, and a moment later they are almost bent over in the desperate attempt to draw in air whenever it subsides enough to just be a little giggling, but then either of them will take a gasping breath, or Mila's mind will stray to Sara's _face_ when she said that, and she will be unable to stop the next bout of laughter; and all together, it takes them far too long to pull themselves together again, and yet the hurting ribcage is nothing compared to how her own chest feels like it is short from bursting just from Sara's ridiculous, dumb laughing face (maybe she is fucked). 

* * *

## love

Somedays--ordinary, everyday days--he looks at Victor, and his chest goes tight and his throat closes and he is filled from head to toe with warmth, prickling beneath his skin like a fire after a long day out in the cold, like elation when he loses himself in his skating, hot and too much and he has to clamp his lips shut, afraid that all the--all the _feelings_ come out in a squeal otherwise, and even so, he cannot stop the grin from spreading over his face, pulling at his chapped lips; he has to be the luckiest man alive. 

* * *

## sympathy

_Yuri looks a lot like a little poisonous garden gnome_ , Mila thinks as she watches his pretty face become red and splotchy; the weird habit of actually baring his teeth that they can't seem to break him of doesn't make anything any better, and Mila has to try hard--so very, very hard--not to snort, or worse, smile at him; and yet even through her amusement she _understands_ , a soft and easily ignored ache in her chest that reminds her of being his age and feeling all that anger that fuelled her on the ice, and she cannot deny that there is a trace of sympathy in her, because being fifteen and too good for your peers to be any competition is a burden in its own way, and Yuri is too young--too much a child still--to see the greater picture, to make more of his slot in life than simply skate, get a medal and rage (rinse, repeat). 

* * *

## defeated

He isn't sure, afterwards, how he makes it off the ice, his eyes burning and face tingling, and when he catches sight of himself in one of the many, many reflective surfaces throughout the arena he sees he is almost ghostly white, and he does his best to avert his eyes, to not think about how he _failed_ out there, how he proved his critics right; he can feel his shoulders slumping forward, but he cannot care beyond the urge to just sit there and cry, and he _failed_ , he should--he should give up, he thinks, trying to focus on the reporter in front of him (and he doesn't have any illusions that the rest of the stay in Sochi will get any better; and he will be right about this, the next day not only marred by a hangover, but also a weight threatening to crush his bones, suffocate him standing right there), and maybe, he thinks, it would all just be better if he simply gave up. 

* * *

## surprised

"And he actually said he was going to bring someone?" Liza asks, raising an eyebrow at Phichit's nod; and then it's almost sitting on hot coals as they wait for Yūri to show up with his myster plus-one; but it _is_ a marked improvement up from being hung-up on a chat-partner he had made when he had texted a wrong number a while back, and Liza has never felt as much anticipation about a door-bell ringing, but when it does, she is giddy and excited and almost bounces on the balls of her feet while Phichit goes to open the door (because oh god, their little Yūri has found someone!), and then the familiar click of Yūri's cane on the hard-wood flooring in Phichit's apartment is audible, along with a voice she can't quite place and yet sounds strangely familiar; the first thing she sees is a sliver of silver hair (has he brought his grandfather?) over Yūri's own head, and then Phichit moves to the side and Liza _sees_ , but for a long moment she cannot comprehend, because her eyes are telling her that this is _Victor Nikiforov_ standing in Phichit's entryway, and the further that thought sinks in, the faster her heart is beating, and she has to sit down, because _Gods Above_ , there is a _legend_ standing barely 30ft from her, and she is not equipped to deal with this. 

* * *

## hope

The feeling is light and bubbly, a little like carbonated soda is filling her entire chest, and she tries to clamp down on it, squash it before it is squashed by somebody else, but it spills out of her in a smile and, judging from the heat in her cheeks, a blush, and when Mila glances over at her, she ducks her head, uninentionally coy (which just makes her blush harder when she realizes it); and then Mila's hand slowly crosses the space between them and brushes against her own, and Sara just barely keeps herself from making a noise that would probably have sounded like a dying seal, but _god_ , Mila is killing her like this, and yet it is worth for the promise of what might come, and maybe she doesn't quite have to kill that feeling in her chest. 

* * *

## broken

She used to think Victor so strong, so self-assured, and for the most part, he is; but there is something wrong, a jagged edge to his voice, a haunted look in his eyes; she has rarely seen him wallow in so much self-pity, and yet she cannot deny he deserves this, deserves to feel sorry for himself (and she tries not to hate people, but in that moment, she _despises_ Katsuki Yūri, who not only let himself down with his performance in Sochi but has also taken Victor's heart in his hand and crumbled it), and will probably pick himself up later and tell her not to carry a grudge, but she isn't sure she can un-see this--him at an all-time low, him actually hurting, and she will make fun of him later (will laugh at him for falling so hard, so mercilessly for a underachieving Japanese skater), but for now she is furious at Katsuki for what he has done to Victor, for leaving Victor like this ( _broken_ , her mind whispers, while she pretends not to hear it). 

* * *

## thrilled

Otabek grins, and it send shiver down Yuri's spine, heat threatening to rise to his cheeks and only held in check by sheer force of will (never let it be said he is lacking in the force of will department), but he does allow an answering smirk when Otabek raises the second helmet, an excited edge to his voice as he asks, "Coming?", and it is merely the promise of the bike ride that makes his heart race, Yuri tells himself, and not the uncharacteristically open display of emotions from Otabek-- _which is also not true,_ his traitorous mind whispers as more images of Otabek smiling and laughing and being _expressive_ around him flash through Yuri's mind, and Yuri pushes them away with a quiet scowl that makes Otabekt grin harder, and Yuri does the only sensible thing: He takes the helmet from Otabek (though 'yanks it' would have likely been a better description) and puts it on, climbing on behind his friend without further comments, and the anticipation that spreads through him makes him shiver again, and he allows himself to smile into his helmet as he inhales deeply, the mixture of stale air from his helmet and Otabek's leather jacket even more intoxicating. 

* * *

## thankful

Otabek's hand is strong and sure on his biceps, managing to wrap around it almost completely, though there is a slight pressure-pain (nothing bad, nothing he wouldn't get from skating on a normal day, anyway) that pulls him back, makes the hornets in his gut recede a little, allows him to breathe somewhat easier; he looks up at his friend, meets the dark eyes, and then, before he can second-guess himself, goes in for a hug, throwing himself into his friend's arms and trusting him to catch him and ignoring the slight wrench as Otabek doesn't release his upper arm fast enough, making skin pull on skin; he doesn't care--doesn't have the brain capacity to care as his senses are filled with the scent of Otabek's omnipresent leather jacket, his arms around Yuri's smaller form blocking the world out; Yuri's breath catches on his next inhale, his heart beating almost painfully in his chest, and as he is standing there and searching for something--anything--to say ( _What would I do without you?_ is too melodramatic, _thanks for saving me_ not really better, _Thanks_ just feels weird) he wishes he could simply push these feelings all towards Otabek even as he hugs him tighter, and when Otabek pulls him closer still, he thinks that maybe--maybe his friend does know. 

* * *

## pleased

Somedays, JJ takes a couple of minutes and pulls up youtube; he knows what they say about him--that he's conceited, only cares about himself, in love with himself--and while there are spots of truth in that (as with most rumours), he doesn't quite know why it's such a _bad_ thing, why being insecure and unsure about his own abilities like Katsuki is so much better, and so he pushes these words away from himself and concentrates on the lines of his body in his choreo, on the bladework and the execution of his jumps, of his facial expression; and yes, somedays he stares his own form preserved forever on video down, searching for the smallest mistake, for things to improve, but this here--this is one of his better skates, and watching flawless jump after flawless jump interspersed with clear if not too fancy step-sequences leaves a warm glowing feeling inside him, a feeling, he intends to capture and use the next time he skates, because he can damn well be proud of himself--that skate was probably one of his personal bests, and he sees no problem in admitting that. 

* * *

## energetic

"Hurry up, рыбка," Lilia says, voice way too cheerful for the early hour, and Yūri groans and curses his decision to come to Russia after all; the woman has to either be the devil or be in league with him, because there is no way a person should be this awake and assertive and expecting standards he is not used to this early in the morning; and yet for all that she is older than Minako she seems to have twice as much energy, though it is not loose the way it is with his old ballet trainer but rather coiled tightly like a tiger primed to pounce any second, and that thought does make him right himself and pay attention, because she is scary like that, and he truly does not want to get on her bad side. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this! You can find the me on my [Dreamwidth](https://kephiso.dreamwidth.com) where I mostly talk about RL and sometimes fandom-stuff.


End file.
